


Dutiful

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Fairy Tail
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Awkwardness, Curses, Eyepatch, First Kiss, Friendship, Loyalty, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Post-Battle, Princes & Princesses, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-11
Updated: 2018-01-11
Packaged: 2019-02-22 08:55:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13163544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "'My personal feelings have nothing to do with it,' Freed says, with enough force that he hopes it overrides the self-consciousness he can feel glowing across his cheeks. 'As the leader of His Highness’s personal guard, any responsibility for our failure falls on me.'" Captain Freed takes personal responsibility for a failure to protect the crown prince of the kingdom. Prince Laxus has a somewhat different perspective.





	Dutiful

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shiny_Pichu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shiny_Pichu/gifts).



“You can’t seriously be intending to go in there,” Evergreen says from Freed’s side. “You have no idea what kind of a mood he’s in.”

“You could be walking into a death sentence,” Bickslow puts in, as smoothly as if he and Evergreen have practiced this speech between them. “At least let one of us go in first to scope him out for you.”

“No,” Freed says without looking at either of the two flanking him or slowing his steady stride down the palace hall. “I received the summons from His Highness myself. I can hardly send someone else in my stead, the request was highly specific.”

Evergreen huffs an exhale that runs perilously close to a groan of frustration in the back of her throat. “You’re being ridiculous,” she informs him without any indication of hesitating in telling him off. “We were all there. If you’re to blame for what happened we ought to bear just as much of the punishment.”

“Yeah,” Bickslow agrees. “Just because you’re head-over-heels in love with him--” Evergreen hisses at this statement, Freed thinks in a half-formed attempt to shut Bickslow up, but the other doesn’t even pause in his speech, “--doesn’t make it your fault.”

“My personal feelings have nothing to do with it,” Freed says, with enough force that he hopes it overrides the self-consciousness he can feel glowing across his cheeks. Evergreen snorts and Bickslow actually laughs out loud, but Freed just lifts his head higher and forces his tone into the most level composure he can find for himself. “As the leader of His Highness’s personal guard, any responsibility for our failure falls on me.”

“There was nothing more you could have done,” Evergreen says with something strained on her tone; in someone less competent, Freed thinks it would be labelled petulance. “You almost died to keep that curse from hitting him, I don’t see how he can be mad about a little scar after all that.”

“Royalty, though,” Bickslow puts in. “There’s no telling what they’ll care about or how much.” He lifts a hand to clap hard against Freed’s shoulder as they come up to the doors to the royal audience chamber. “It’s been nice knowing you, Captain.”

Evergreen huffs from Freed’s side and shifts to cross her arms just under her breasts. “If he exiles you he’s an idiot,” she grumbles. “I don’t care if he  _ is _ royalty.”

Freed tries on a smile. “I appreciate the sentiment,” he says. “But Prince Laxus is our liege. We owe him all the loyalty we have to offer.”

“There’s no arguing with him on that, Ever,” Bickslow says. “You know how messed up our Captain gets when it’s about the prince.” He leans in to slide his arm around Freed’s shoulders and tighten his hold for a moment. “Good luck, buddy.”

Evergreen takes a breath, the sound oddly strained on tension, and then she’s turning in to grab Freed in a shocking hug. Freed loses his breath in a rush at the surprise of the physical affection, but Evergreen doesn’t let him go and doesn’t lift her head to meet his startled gaze.

“Don’t let him kill you,” she says against his shoulder. “You’re a much better leader than I would be.”

Freed huffs a breath, the rush of air at his lips a little bit surprised and a little bit touched. “Right,” he says. He lifts a hand to press at Evergreen’s shoulder before he reaches to weight his touch atop Bickslow’s hand at his arm. “Thank you.” They stand there for a moment, the other two holding onto Freed as if to grant him armor via their concern; and then Freed lifts his chin, and lets his hand fall, and when he steps forward Bickslow and Evergreen let him go free without protest. He tugs at the front of his long coat, presses his hand against the smooth fall of his hair, touches briefly at the patch covering his right eye; and then he lets his hand fall to rest against the hilt of the rapier at his hip, the sign of the royal family’s trust in the captain of the prince’s personal guard, and it’s clad in the strength of that role that he steps forward to push open the door before him and stride into the audience room.

It’s a larger room than it needs to be. The walls are sized for an audience of dozens, the space large enough to comfortably fit up to a hundred petitioners; with no one else on the smooth-polished tiles underfoot Freed feels lost, like he’s been set adrift on an endless sea of judgment. There’s only the prince before him, seated in the gilded weight of a throne and with a servant standing a reasonable few feet away to answer any need he has; and he’s not looking at the servant, isn’t sharing out his attention to anyone else. That focus is held entirely to Freed in front of him, and to watching the other’s slow approach over the distance of the room; Freed can feel his skin prickle with self-consciousness, can feel his spine tense on the adrenaline of what would be fear if he held less of an iron grip upon it. But his duty is clear, his next steps as fixed as if he moves along a set route; and so he goes on striding forward in spite of the weight of that gaze on him, in spite of the sound of his footsteps echoing back to him from the empty cold of the walls around him. He comes forward across the entire distance of the floor, feeling his heart beating faster with every step he takes nearer the shadow of the prince’s gaze on him; and then he’s standing before the raised weight of that throne, offering himself up for the consideration of that absolute focus, and there’s only one thing left for him to do.

“Your Highness,” Freed says, his voice calm and cool in spite of the rattle of his heart in his chest; and he ducks forward into a bow deep enough that the weight of his hair slides forward over his shoulder to almost touch the smooth of the tiles underfoot. “As you have summoned me, so have I come.”

There’s a pause, a moment of silence hanging as heavy as a physical weight in the air. Then:

“Yeah,” the prince says. “You. Get out of here.” Freed blinks and lifts his head fractionally, unsure if the words are meant for him; but it’s the servant at Laxus’s side who is ducking into a bow and turning to make his way towards the doors Freed has just come through. The prince watches him for a moment, his eyes dark as he observes the other’s retreat; and then he turns back to Freed still bowing before him, and Freed ducks his head to return his gaze to the floor. His heart is racing, he wonders if he shouldn’t offer an apology for staring at the other before him; but the prince is speaking without waiting for him to, without even waiting for the servant to make his way clear of the doors.

“Captain Freed,” he says, his voice low and grating as if over gravel. “Kneel.”

Freed kneels immediately. There’s no hesitation in the movement; he thinks his legs might be giving way more in answer to Laxus’s tone than in response to his own intent. His knees hit the floor, the end of his rapier skims against the tile, and Freed ducks his head farther forward without hesitating, far enough that the fall of his hair leaves the back of his neck uncovered for Laxus’s view.

“Your Highness,” he says. His heart is hammering in his chest, he can feel vibration running through every part of his body; even his usually level tone is wavering and starting to tremble around strain in the back of his throat. “I must offer you my sincerest apologies for--”

“Be quiet,” Laxus says, and Freed shuts his mouth instantly at the crack of that voice through the air. There’s silence for a moment while Freed feels the cool of the tile beneath him run up into his legs, while he listens to the hiss of his breathing at the back of his throat; then there’s a rustle of motion, the sound of heavy fabric dragging over itself as Laxus pushes to his feet before him. Freed’s gaze slides up in spite of himself, lifting to track the sound of the prince’s approach even if he doesn’t raise his head; he can see Laxus’s boots striding towards him, can just catch the weight of the other’s fur-lined cloak sweeping around his knees as those boots pace over the distance. Laxus comes forward off the dais, approaching to stand just in front of Freed kneeling before him, and Freed drops his gaze again, fixing his eyes instead on the shining toes of Laxus’s boots while his heart goes on skipping on too-much speed in his chest.

Laxus doesn’t say anything for a moment. He just stands there, looking down at Freed before him; Freed wonders if the other intends to keep him here all day, if perhaps the command for silence was meant as a test of his obedience. It would be an unusual move, to be sure, from a prince who has largely favored action over patience in all the time Freed has served him; Freed is just wondering over the likelihood of the possibility when there’s another shift of motion, another drag of cloth over itself as Laxus moves. There’s a metallic whine, the  _ shink _ of a blade sliding free of a scabbard; and Freed shuts his eyes for a moment of terrified awareness as Laxus draws the weight of his two-handed sword free from its sheath at his hip.

Freed can feel the hairs at the back of his neck stand on end, can feel his shoulders tense as if the attempt will achieve anything at all in stopping the full-strength swing of that sword coming down on him; but he doesn’t lift his head, doesn’t flinch from his position. He can still taste the memory of his vow of allegiance on his lips, can remember the moment long years ago when he pledged himself to the service and protection of the man before him now; and he can feel the proof of his failure in the new scar running vertically over Laxus’s right eye without having to lift his head and see it. It is Freed’s duty to take those blows on himself instead of letting them fall on the prince, his life has been dedicated to that sole purpose; the fact of his own incapacitated state at the time that blow fell is no more excuse than incompetence would be. He had hoped to be allowed to continue his work, had hoped to be allowed to remain at least in Laxus’s vicinity; but his life has always been held at the prince’s whim, and if Laxus should see the taking of it as fair payment for Freed’s failure, Freed is not about to voice a protest to that.

“Freed,” Laxus says over him. “Do you know why I summoned you here today?” A pause. “You may speak.”

Freed takes a breath, feels the pressure of it strain at his lungs; and then opens his eyes to fix his gaze at Laxus’s boots again, as a grounding point to brace himself against as he speaks. His heart is still pounding, his breath is still struggling; but he tightens his hand at his side, and steadies his thoughts, and forces himself to answer his prince’s demand.

“For my failure,” he says, dragging the words free from the tension in his throat. “My inability to protect you during the attack on the castle.” He presses his lips together and forces himself to swallow through a breath. “My men and I failed you and that rests squarely on my shoulders.”

“Failure,” Laxus repeats. “How did you fail me?”

Freed struggles for an inhale. “Your injury, Your Highness,” he manages. “You could have lost an eye as a result of my negligence. For that--”

“Stop,” Laxus says. Freed stops. Over his head there’s the long draw of an inhale, the sound of Laxus filling his lungs with breath; and then a sigh huffing loud against the quiet of the room.

“You didn’t fail anyone,” Laxus says. “I brought you here to thank you.” There’s the sound of a blade slicing through the air, a rush of motion as the sword descends; Freed can feel his shoulders tense in spite of himself, can feel his body hunch in against the expected blow, but when the impact comes it’s against his shoulder instead of the back of his neck, the bruising force of the flat of the blade landing against his coat instead of the cutting edge of the edge at his skin. Freed huffs an exhale more in response to the shock than to the pain sweeping out from his shoulder, but Laxus is already lifting the sword from his shoulder and sweeping it up over his head.

“You have served me well as the captain of my guard,” Laxus says. The blade in his hand smacks against Freed’s other shoulder; Freed jolts with the force of the blow landing at his collarbone. “You deserve a reward for your efforts” as he lifts the sword again and brings it back to Freed’s first shoulder. “I hereby bestow a knighthood upon you.” The last blow lands, the sword smacking rough at Freed’s shoulder, and Freed lifts his head to stare up in shock at Laxus before him. Laxus meets his gaze levelly, holding Freed’s attention as he draws his sword back up and lifts his hand to fit it against the sheath at his hip; he rattles his sword back into place with careless grace before extending his hand to Freed before him. “Stand.”

Freed glances at Laxus’s hand. He can hardly refuse the offer of the prince he has sworn to follow into death itself; but still, at this moment he thinks this might be a harder task Laxus is asking of him than anything else that has gone before. He presses his lips together and swallows hard; and then he lifts his hand from his side to reach up and press his palm close against the other’s. Laxus’s hand closes on his, Laxus’s grip steadies on Freed’s; when he pulls Freed rises to his feet without thinking, his body urged to motion by the other’s touch as surely as it obeyed Laxus’s initial command to kneel. He ends up on his feet, his legs trembling and his shoulders aching; and Laxus is stepping in towards him without flinching to close the distance between them. Freed’s eyes go wide, his weight rocks back; but he can’t pull away without entirely retreating, and then Laxus is looming before him with the full force of his height and presence together bearing down on Freed standing before him.

“You did well,” he says, his voice steady even as he offers the words of praise. His gaze slides up to the fall of Freed’s hair over his face, where the weight of the pale color has been laid to half-cover the eyepatch over the other’s eye. “You protected me at great personal cost to yourself.”

Freed swallows with some effort. His heart is still racing impossibly fast in his chest. “Your Highness--”

“Let me see,” Laxus says, and he’s reaching out to push Freed’s hair aside and touch his fingers against the other’s brow, just against the dark of the eyepatch strap. Freed’s jaw tenses, his breath rushes from him; he can feel the heat of Laxus’s touch crackle like lightning just under his skin. Laxus’s gaze slides away from the eyepatch, swinging around to fix on Freed’s uncovered eye instead; Freed can see the other’s forehead crease, can see something like uncertainty work its way onto the prince’s face. Laxus frowns at him for a moment, looking intent like he’s struggling over some thought before he lifts his chin and clears his throat. “May I?”

The words sound awkward on his lips, the structure of asking permission audibly beyond what he’s used to giving. Freed can feel his shoulders tense at the sound of the words, at the power they carry in their implication, at the dominance they grant into his own keeping. For a moment he can’t respond, can’t do anything but gape shock at Laxus before him; and then he gathers himself, and presses his lips together, and ducks his head into a nod of obedience. He has to keep his head down for a moment, has to take a breath to compose his expression from the shock that hit him; but he lifts his hand all the same, drawing his fingers free of Laxus’s hold and up to reach for the laces at the back of his head. He catches at the trailing ends, pulls hard against the bow keeping the strap in place; and then he lets his hold go, and lets the weight of the eyepatch slide free to fall to the floor at their feet before he lifts his chin to meet Laxus’s gaze with both eyes, this time.

Laxus’s frown doesn’t shift as he considers Freed’s face. There’s no visible change in his expression at all, in fact; but Freed knows what the other is seeing, knows how uncanny the purple-black shadows cast around his curse-marked eye appear. It’s worth keeping it covered for that alone, even if his vision remains almost entirely intact; better to give up his depth perception in exchange for the ability to keep the proof of the magical blow he took hidden from general sight. But Laxus asked to see, and Freed can’t refuse his prince anything; and after all, it’s not as if Laxus doesn’t know the truth, not when it was he the curse was meant for originally. So Freed stands still, and looks up into the dark of Laxus’s eyes on him, and he lets the flickering shadows of his cursed eye be laid clear for the other to see.

Laxus’s fingers slide up and into Freed’s hair, his hold tightening enough to pin the other’s hair back from his face. It makes Freed feel strangely exposed, as if Laxus is going to read the pounding of his heart from his expression as clearly as he sees the weight of the injury Freed took on his behalf; it makes Freed feel shaky with heat, like his legs are about to give way beneath him to drop him back into obedience to Laxus’s initial command. It’s hard to keep himself upright, hard to keep his eyes open; but Freed braces himself, and steadies his shoulders, and struggles himself into both under the burden of Laxus’s focus.

“Leave the eyepatch off,” Laxus says finally, without any shift in his expression to preface the words. His hand at Freed’s hair slides in and back; his fingers pin the weight of the heavy locks to the back of the other’s neck. “It’s good to see it.”

Freed presses his lips tight together and works through a swallow. “Yes, Your Highness.”

Laxus considers Freed for a moment, his expression still impossibly unreadable. “You did well,” he says at last, repeating that praise from before; even on a repetition, Freed can feel his whole body glowing warmer in answer to the words. “Thank you for your service.”

Freed’s breath catches, his heart skips. “Your Highness,” he says; and there’s something shadowed on his voice, some emotion too much for him to strip free, but he’s speaking anyway, struggling forward into coherency as much as he can manage. “It is an honor to serve you.” He presses his lips together and tries to swallow, to push himself into composure; it’s a doomed effort before he begins, but he makes the attempt all the same.

“I would do anything for you,” he says, and hears the words true on his lips. “For you…” and then he catches his lip in his teeth to forcibly hold back the confession trying to wrench itself free of his throat. His eyes are burning with emotion enough to underline the truth of the words he blurted; he can feel his cheeks glowing with the beginnings of embarrassed self-consciousness. He casts his eyes down to the dip of Laxus’s collar to avoid the other’s gaze; it does nothing to cool his flush, but at least it saves him from having to see the look in his prince’s eyes.

Laxus sighs. Freed can hear the weight on the sound, can feel the decision as if of resignation in the other’s throat. “Oh, Freed,” Laxus says; and then there’s a touch at Freed’s face, the weight of a palm sliding in to settle against his jaw, and when Laxus’s hold tips Freed’s head up and into the light Freed barely has a moment to blink against the fractured lights around them before Laxus is ducking in and over him to press his mouth close against Freed’s own.

Freed’s eyes go wide, his lungs empty in a hissing exhale at his nose. His lips are still parted on whatever he was going to say, whatever he was trying to keep from confessing to; he can’t think enough to press them together, can’t restrain himself into whatever reaction he ought to be having. Laxus’s hands are framing his head, bracing him steady for the heat of the other’s mouth on his, for the friction of Laxus’s lips pressing near against his own; and then Laxus makes a low sound in the back of his throat, and he’s leaning in harder, tipping his head to press closer as his hand at Freed’s jaw slides in and back to cup at the back of the other’s head instead. Freed hisses an inhale through his nose, trying desperately to decide if this is some hallucination, if maybe that sword did fall on him as he expected and this is all some extended, dying dream; and then Laxus is licking at his mouth, and Freed decides that he doesn’t actually care whether he’s living or dying so long as his present experience includes the fact of Laxus kissing hard against the give of his lips and the taste of electricity crackling in and over his tongue. Freed opens his mouth wider, and lifts a hand tentatively from his side to touch at Laxus’s hip; and Laxus growls again, and steps in closer as if to tip Freed backwards and right off his feet. Freed has to clutch at Laxus’s neck to keep himself upright, has to cling to the other to keep from outright falling; and then Laxus’s hand is dropping from his hair to the dip of his back, Laxus’s hold is steadying Freed tight against him, and Freed’s heart is racing to doubletime against the broad span of Laxus’s chest pinning against his own. Laxus’s teeth catch at Freed’s lip, Laxus’s tongue tastes against the heat of Freed’s mouth, and Freed can feel himself giving way as if Laxus’s touch is stripping all the strength from his veins, as if he’s still trying to obey that first order to drop to the floor at Laxus’s feet. It’s only his hold on Laxus keeping him upright, only Laxus’s hand bracing at his back holding him in place; and then there’s the sound of a door opening, and a shout: “It wasn’t Captain Freed’s fault!” in Evergreen’s carrying tone. “You can’t put all the blame on-- _ oh _ ,” self-assurance dissolving into a gasp of shock as quickly as Laxus groans a low note of frustration and lifts his head from Freed’s to look towards the doorway.

Freed looks back too. He can’t help it; the reaction is too instinctive, the reflex to turn strong enough to override the desire to duck forward and hide the flush across his cheeks against the nearest sturdy object, which in this case would be Laxus’s chest. Evergreen is standing in the doorway, her feet braced and her shoulders set as if for a fight; but her mouth is open, her eyes are wide behind her glasses, her whole expression is a mask of shock entirely out-of-keeping with the aggressive stance she’s adopted. For a moment they stare at each other, Evergreen in the doorway and Laxus and Freed caught together in the middle of the room; and then from around the corner:

“What?” in Bickslow’s harsh whisper. “What, did he kill him or something?” The door comes open wider, Bickslow’s head pokes around the corner; and even from across the room Freed can see the other’s eyebrows jump up, can see Bickslow’s lips purse on a soundless whistle. “Oh wow.”

“Sorry,” Evergreen says, sounding more discomposed than Freed has ever seen her before. “We didn’t mean…” She lifts her hand to wave it through the air before her as she reaches out to grab at Bickslow’s collar. “We’ll be leaving.”

“Woo!” Bickslow cheers, lifting his hand to punch congratulations at the air. “Go get ‘im, Cap’n!” He’s opening his mouth to continue with whatever suggestion comes to mind, but thankfully Evergreen chooses that moment to drag him bodily out of the doorway in her wake. There’s the sound of footsteps, a yelp of protest from Bickslow; and then the door is swinging shut again, and Freed and Laxus are left in ringing silence once more.

Freed can feel his whole face glowing with heat, feels like in a moment he’ll disintegrate and drop straight through the floor beneath him. He presses his lips together and swallows hard, fighting for some scraps of coherency before he turns back to face Laxus. He can’t bring himself to meet the other’s gaze, can’t manage to see what expression is on the prince’s face; he fixes his attention at the line of Laxus’s collar instead, pinning his focus as firmly there as he can while he clears his throat into an attempt at composure.

“I am,” he manages. “I am so sorry. I...I can--”

Laxus huffs a breath. “Freed,” he says, and Freed looks up in helpless obedience. Laxus is looking down at him, the dark of his eyes fixed full on Freed’s face; but he’s not scowling, not glaring as Freed half-expected him to be. There’s tension at his mouth, to be sure; but it’s tugging up at the corners instead of down, urging his lips towards the suggestion of a smile or held-back laughter instead of the judgment Freed feared to see there.

“Stop apologizing so much,” Laxus says; and then he slides his hand back up into Freed’s hair, and ducks back down to enforce his command with the heat of his mouth at Freed’s as a means to cut off any spoken response. Freed blinks, his heart pounding and his thoughts spinning; and then Laxus’s hand at his hair tightens, and Laxus’s mouth opens against his, and Freed braces himself at the back of Laxus’s neck, and lets his eyes shut, and surrenders to the sovereignty of his prince’s hold on him.


End file.
